


Of Cynics and Idealists

by 7000Romaine



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ancient History references!, Artistic references!, Drama!, F/M, M/M, Multi, Paris!, Philosophical references!, Slice of Life, you may need a handy dandy Metro map to read this...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 03:39:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7000Romaine/pseuds/7000Romaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris was more than a city. It embodied within it's soul every flicker of light, every winter shadow, every love-struck glance, and every hangover. There was life there, and wine, and music, and poetry. It was all these things and a thousand more that made it difficult for Les Amis de l'ABC to return home to the places where they were raised. Here they had each other, and their causes, and their jokes. They could pass by Notre Dame every evening, admiring the orange lights along the river, and they could study in the Jardin des Tuileries on sunlit afternoons. Their group leader, Enjolras, had never felt more useful anywhere else, and Grantaire, the cynic, had never before found something so glorious to believe in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Cynics and Idealists

The icy, wintry wind howled and screeched through every corner and crevice of the ancient city of Paris. Even the inside mazes of the Metro stations could feel the stone cold breath hurrying through their tunnels, and the Eiffel Tower’s view from the apartment at the tip-top was a bleak and dreary image of clouds and frosty mist. The tourist’s faces made them appear to be thinking that they had made a mistake traveling to the city in December, and they were seen huddled inside warmly lit cafes, snapping pictures of the boulevards and the Seine from behind closed windows. It was a gloomy sight to anyone unfamiliar with the whitewashed architecture mixed subtly with the greycast sky, but there was also a timeless pale beauty radiating from the heart of the city. In summer the flowers changed from year to year, but in winter the scene was always unchanged. It was always clouds, and stone, and electric lights, and ornate old bridges.  
  
The rainy, windy day didn’t stop the life of the city though. The Sorbonne’s classes were in session, and businessmen were seen bundled up in their black padded coats walking along the streets of La Défense. Accordion players plagued the Metro trains, and the top decks of the red tour buses contained a few brave souls who were willing to lose feeling in their fingers for a few good photos of le Palais Garnier.  
  
The same winter rain that was cascading down the Gothic drain pipes of Notre Dame was also pounding on the roof of the Café Musain a few blocks away across the Seine, but if it weren’t for the windows, no one inside would have known that it was raining. For the backroom of the dimly lit café was alive with the many voices of Les Amis de l’ABC, and the uproar was nothing uncommon. They were a loud group, usually, if for no other reason than to drown out the crude and cynical jibes from their friendly drunk, Grantaire. Grantaire had nothing encouraging (or relevant half the time) to add to the meetings, but the Amis accepted him as part of their group anyway, perhaps because he’d just been around so long and they couldn’t remember their group of friends without him. But whatever the case, they liked Grantaire, despite his often unwanted remarks. He served as a sort of comic relief, at least to everyone except Enjolras, who was anything but comical.  
  
Enjolras was a serious minded university student, with very little tolerance of people who did not think and act in the ways he did. He was thoroughly unimpressed by indolence, and completely frustrated by the politically apathetic. His goal was to transform the world to fit the needs of all people, to ensure educational reform, to enlighten his fellow citizens with pressing events, and to ultimately fasten the future on the road to a grand utopia. The notions were laughable to anyone who had never met him, but those who did happen to make his acquaintance never thought to question him. His sincerity and devotion to his various causes made it hard for anyone to criticize him well. And if they did, they would surely walk away questioning their own capabilities. Enjolras had a unique way of reaching into people’s souls and reminding them that they were human. He often said in his speeches that “mankind has every potential within their grasp to advance their own society. It is we who created the world we despise; we can just as well create the world that we have dreamt of.” But no one who actually knew the idealistic man believed him to be a dreamer. His cause was his greatest, one could even say only, pursuit in life, and he was bold enough to sway people.  
  
Combeferre, who was Enjolras’s absolute best friend and stabilizer, had once asked him in private after a particularly frustrating meeting at the Musain, “Have you ever thought to yourself that you chose the most difficult life possible?” To which Enjolras merely gazed his tired eyes toward the streets of Paris and said, “Do you see those people walking into the Luxembourg Gardens? There across the street? They most likely thought to themselves this morning that their jobs are not worth waking up for, that their rent is too much to pay, that they need a new coat, or new boots, or their children have no hope finding work. You say my life will be difficult, but I say there is no better a course. For the greatest life one can live is that which strives to give those people an easy life. What makes a person human is not the blood in his veins, but the devotion he holds for his fellow man. I could never be content walking those streets knowing my coat is warmer than theirs. I could never be happy in such a bleak world. My friend, I did not choose to believe in the seemingly impossible, it is my civic duty to do so.”  
  
Combeferre never brought up the question again, but Grantaire certainly did. If Enjolras’s point in life was to revolutionize the world, then Grantaire’s goal in life was to laugh at his attempts. On this particular blustery day, Courfeyrac had brought news from a university friend of a coming strike concerning the wages of Metro workers, to which Grantaire had scoffed saying, “no point in making a fuss Enjolras, let me go to them. I can tell them all about how they earn more from their dreary jobs than I do as an artist!” Feuilly had to try hard to stifle a chuckle at that, being himself on the poorer side of the scale, but the look on their leader’s face was enough to make anyone but Grantaire sober up.  
  
The room fell silent, for they all knew what would inevitably happen next. Enjolras never let the cynic get away with his sarcastic comments, and as always, their leader was thoroughly unamused. “Grantaire you may one day find yourself lying beside a gutter on a day much like today. The rain will pound down upon you worse than the headaches of your hangovers, and you will be laughed at by tourists. Remember, when that day comes, that we are the people who you will call for when you wake. I cannot imagine you have any other friends who would help you.”  
  
“Help me?” Grantaire looked at him with wide eyes, setting his cheap bottle of brandy down with a thunk upon the table as he stood. “Oh great Apollo! I never knew you were so sympathetic toward us mortals down here on the dirt! Pray tell, how can you still see us feeble humans when you’re so blinded by the sun?”  
  
“Well, there’s your answer Grantaire,” Enjolras retorted icily without pause. His patience with the man never lasted long. “I’m not a god. I’m not a demi-god. I’m not even a hero. Homer would not know my name, nor would Sophocles, nor Cleisthenes. But you are right about one thing, I have been looking at the dirt for far too long.” As though to drive home his point, Enjolras looked over Grantaire a moment longer before sharply turning to face the others. Jehan was making his usual “that entire conversation was unnecessary and tense” face, and Joly was making small talk with Bossuet a few tables over in an effort to lighten the mood in the room.  
  
Grantaire sat back down at his table in the corner of the room, raising his bottle to his mouth. He had heard so many agitated speeches from Enjolras directed at him, he now wondered how many times when he was truly beyond wasted Enjolras had said similar things to him. Grantaire was glad he had been drunk enough to miss those moments. Nevertheless, he found immense pleasure in getting their leader riled up. Perhaps it was because in those moments Enjolras actually acknowledged his presence within their group, or maybe it was because he genuinely liked seeing the fury in the angelic man’s eyes. No matter the reason, the effect was always ultimately noteworthy. But even Bahorel was not brave enough to directly point out to Enjolras that Grantaire was often the spark behind many of Enjolras’s greatest, most passionately articulated speeches. Everyone in the group knew it to be true, especially Grantaire, who often quietly praised himself for bringing out the most ferocious sides of Enjolras, the side that won the blonde haired man supporters quite often. It didn’t matter at all that Grantaire believed Enjolras’s causes worthless and even ridiculous, he simply liked seeing him shine in the acts of grandiloquent oratory. To Grantaire, no artist could create so inspiring an effect as Enjolras did. One did not have to agree with the man to believe in him. Just as a masterpiece painting does not have to arouse the mind to be beautiful.  
  
Combeferre was speaking to Enjolras in a hushed voice now across the room, and Grantaire figured they were planning out their next topic of crucial discussion. To pass the time, Grantaire took out the sketchbook he kept in his book bag. He hadn’t been to any of his classes that day, for he did not want to walk in the downpour to get to the Metro station. Instead he had chosen the short walk to the Musain from his flat nearby during a short interlude when the rain was not so heavy, passing through the Luxembourg Gardens on his way. He had been sitting in the backroom of the café waiting before any of the others had arrived.  
  
Minutes quickly turned into an hour and a half as Grantaire occupied himself with his pencils of various degrees of lights and darks. He was working on an outline for what would soon become his semester final project, which he knew he was supposed to have already started. But he wasn’t worried about the deadline, for he knew this painting would be effortless. It was inspired, and a truly inspired work of art often needs no lengthy preparation. For this one he envisioned the final canvas smothered in a thick impasto, like the paintings he had seen by Vincent van Gogh and Frank Auerbach, and like most of his other paintings hung up around the university or lined along the walls of his flat, he would apply the bold colors of red, black, and gold. It was never hard to tell what inspired him; all of his works displayed similar themes.  
  
Every so many pencil strokes he would raise his bottle to his lips, and risk a glance at Enjolras who was still facing away from him, quickly jotting down notes as Courfeyrac was speaking. Grantaire shook his head, as though to laugh at his friends acting so serious, talking about dour circumstances that were for the most part so inconsequential. He returned his attention to his drawing, only vaguely aware of the sound of voices on the other side of the room.  
  
Another half hour passed, and Grantaire hardly noticed the chairs squeaking against the floorboards from the tables nearby. A voice caught his attention.  
  
“Hey, R! Are you coming with us to Courfeyrac’s place? We’re all heading out now.” It was Joly who summoned him from his artistic reverie. The medical student was buttoning up his navy blue raincoat near the backdoor, and Bossuet was kindly opening a black umbrella for him. The others were already on the slick pavement outside waiting for them. Grantaire could see through the opened doorway that Courfeyrac had decided against wearing his coat, and his red sweater was drenched in the rain within seconds. Jehan laughed as Courfeyrac excitedly raised his hands high taking in the freezing downpour. His hair turned jet black as the rain washed his curls against his forehead. Jehan was taking pictures of him on his phone, and Joly looked horrified at them both. He quickly slipped out the door, still buttoning up the top of his coat. Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh when he heard the inevitable lecture on the perils of standing in the rain, and how Courfeyrac was “damaging his body’s defenses against influenza!” But of course Courfeyrac didn’t care.  
  
Grantaire followed behind Bossuet and they joined the rest of the group outside. It was a frigid walk to the nearest Metro station, as the wind swayed the empty branches of the tall trees back and forth above them, and there was a hint of snow in the clouds rolling in over Paris. They were glad when the Gare du Luxembourg sign appeared, and they climbed down the steps into the twisty tunnel. It was a fifteen minute ride to get to the station for Courfeyrac’s flat, and on the second stop a red headed girl wearing far too much mascara and long black boots hopped on aboard and sat intentionally across from Enjolras. It was evident by the way she kept staring at him that she expected to go home lucky, but the blond haired man never once acknowledged her. He had fixed his cold blue eyes toward the dirtied windows of the train and watched as water taxis journeyed down the Seine, fading into the mist behind the Île de la Cité. The city looked like it did in the old black and white photographs. Everywhere was the stark contrast of shadows and lights, and little black coats here and there dotting along the bridges. It was a whitewashed city preparing for night.  
  
Minutes passed by, and the group joked lightheartedly about Enjolras’s admirer on the train as they walked the short distance from the station to Courfeyrac’s flat, to which their leader quietly tried to ignore them. He was usually vaguely aware that people stared at him, and it bothered him tremendously that it wasn’t his causes that pulled people to him for the most part. Courfeyrac would forever tease him about the time they all attended the Christmas Markets a year ago when a young girl, probably only seventeen then, took a photo of him standing beside one of the coffee stalls. The joke was that his picture was somewhere in the middle of Canada hanging on a dorm room wall.  
  
The group was still laughing when Courfeyrac swung open the door to he and Marius’s shared flat on the twelfth floor of their apartment building. Marius had been in the flat all day finishing some last minute homework assignments that he had accidentally neglected in the past two weeks. He had skipped the meeting at the Musain in exchange for writing a long, tedious essay. There were two empty cans of two different energy drinks beside him on the desk, and it appeared he had at some point banged his head against the keyboard, for there were faint traces of red marks across his face. It was Courfeyrac who was the first to witness the pathetic scene.  
  
“Marius, you’re working harder than Feuilly for that paper. You said it was only supposed to be three pages.” He said as he made for his bedroom to change into drier clothing. The others piled into the small living room behind him, and Jehan strolled over to where Marius was sitting at the computer, looking over his shoulder at the Word document.  
  
“Zur Geschichte von Österreich” Jehan read aloud, overlooking the title of Marius’s failed homework attempt. Bahorel overheard, or, misheard, from across the room, “Marius, why are you sweating over an essay about ostrich shit? What the hell is that for?” Everyone in the room laughed except Marius, who turned a wholly unsubtle shade of red.  
  
“What? No…no! No, it’s for my German class; I have to write a brief history of Austria completely in German. It’s horrible. I can’t concentrate anymore. I’ve been sitting here for four hours. I think your energy drinks messed up my brain Courf, I swear I’ve been writing in French and maybe even English and…”  
  
“Hey, hey, calm down. You’re fine,” Jehan said in a soothing tone. Jehan was the go-to guy if anybody was in need of stress relief. He was sympathetic, and had an air of tranquility which he brought with him everywhere he went. Courfeyrac called it his “poetic charm.”  
  
Meanwhile as Jehan and Marius sat trying to finish the dreadful paper, the others lounged about around the living room and the adjoining kitchen. Enjolras and Combeferre were still deciding over some final details of a pamphlet they were sending out that Friday to the various universities around Paris. Combeferre had his lap top with him, and they were huddled over the screen at the kitchen counter. Courfeyrac would join them periodically as he made the rounds engaging himself in the different conversations around the room. Bossuet had left to step into a bedroom to make a phone call to Musichetta, and it took less than a minute for Joly to promptly follow him. Feuilly, Bahorel, and Grantaire were laughing over some of the less than masterful artists in their university’s art department. Bahorel was actually majoring in law, but he shared Grantaire’s artistic passion. And Feuilly was a costume designer for several of the small theatres around Paris, and was more than used to being around creative minds. As the three spoke animatedly (in language that was much more vulgar than necessary), Grantaire couldn’t help looking over across the room to where Enjolras and Combeferre sat so seriously. It annoyed him that Enjolras never seemed to stop working on his various social projects. The sun had already set, and all around him was laughter and lively voices telling entertaining stories, and there shone Enjolras, so sober, so still, so important. He was always too severe, and Grantaire wondered if Combeferre quietly wished he could join the others in the room. They’d been at it with those pamphlets for nearly three hours that day.  
  
Bahorel noticed Grantaire’s eyes wandering in the clear direction of where Enjolras was sitting, and he decided to speak for the cynic. “Hey! Enjolras! Combeferre! Come and join our little civilization, you’ve still got a few days to finish those pamphlets.” Bahorel then immediately shot a knowing smirk at Grantaire, who was pretending not to notice as he tried to scratch off a stain of black paint stuck to his palm. Enjolras hardly appeared to have heard, his focus so fixedly set on the screen in front of him. But Combeferre gave Bahorel an apologetic shrug, and said “it’ll just be a few more minutes.” But Grantaire knew what that really meant. It’ll just be another two hours.  
  
Just then Courfeyrac sat down in the middle of the sofa that Grantaire and Bahorel were lounging on, and Bahorel suddenly got a mischievous look in his eye. He leaned towards Courfeyrac and whispered, “I’ll give you ten euros if you go over and shut that laptop.”  
  
“Deal,” Courfeyrac said, as he casually slipped off the sofa. Grantaire and Bahorel watched him head so innocently in the direction of the two men focused on their work across the room.  
  
Bahorel, still grinning, gave a “three…two…and…”  
  
“Courfeyrac!” Enjolras said, nearly shouting in frustration.  
  
“And there it is,” Bahorel said before pulling his wallet out and shuffling through its contents to find ten euros.  
  
Enjolras began giving Courfeyrac a rapid speech on the importance of his work, but Courfeyrac was more interested in the applause resounding throughout the room. Even Combeferre was quietly laughing. He patted Enjolras on the shoulder before standing up, “they’re right, we really ought to take a break. You’re eyes are starting to wander anyhow.” Combeferre had been watching his friend zoning towards a particular spot in the room for the past half hour. His gaze was turning glassy, and his words were slowly becoming less frequent as the hour went on. It wasn’t hard to tell where his attention kept wandering off to. What was even less ambiguous was that every time Grantaire’s voice rose or he laughed over some joke, Enjolras’s eyes were sure to look instantly straight to him before he forced his concentration back to the document in front of him. Combeferre wondered if Grantaire was sober enough to notice. It didn’t seem likely.  
  
As Combeferre was shutting down his laptop, Courfeyrac bounced back over to the sofa and gave a dramatic bow before receiving his ten euros from Bahorel, who’s reply when handing over the money was “go buy me some cigarettes with that.”  
  
Courfeyrac gave a quick “ha”, and then shot the two on the sofa a final wide grin before heading back towards Marius and Jehan, the latter of whom was trying to teach Marius some obscure fact concerning World War I. Feuilly had joined their conversation at some point, and was giving excess details to elaborate everything Jehan was saying. Marius looked as though he were trying to pay careful attention to everything they were explaining to him, but Courfeyrac knew his flat mate well enough to know that Marius was absorbing the words instead of the facts. He foresaw Marius having an adventure through Wikipedia later that night rather than taking in the trivial information Jehan and Feuilly were feeding him. Courfeyrac wouldn’t blame him if he did.

  


\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
The group grew louder as the night went on, and it was sometime after ten’ o’clock when Joly and Bossuet finally reappeared, only to find the group sitting all together in the living room watching The Lion King. It didn’t require any asking to know that it was Courfeyrac’s idea to put it on. He was a Disney fanatic, and knew every song from every movie. Joly and Bossuet shook their heads and laughed as they approached the middle of the room, taking their seats on the carpet since all the available decent sitting room was taken. Courfeyrac and Marius had claimed the kitchen stools that they carried over into the living room, Jehan was at the desk typing something that looked suspiciously like a poem or two, Bahorel and Feuilly had both left early because of early shifts at work, and Combeferre was acting as a buffer between Enjolras and Grantaire on the couch.  
  
“It’s a good thing Enj is asleep over there,” said Grantaire, his voice dripping in sarcasm. “He wouldn’t take too kindly to Simba’s ambitious dreams of being king.”  
  
“I’m not asleep Grantaire,” said a very drowsy Enjolras.  
  
“You should be,” Combeferre piped in gently. “You’ve been awake just over twenty hours now.”  
  
Joly hung his mouth open aghast. “Enjolras! How often do you do this to yourself?”  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“How often do you allow yourself to be sleep deprived? That can cause debilitating effects, such as memory lapse, seizures, heightened anxiety or depression, and general cognitive dysfunction, among many things. Are you overloaded with stress or -”  
  
“Yeah I think you’re describing me actually,” Grantaire said, cutting off Joly’s rant with a wave of his hand.  
  
“Seriously, Enjolras?” Joly wasn’t letting it go that easily. He cared about the health of his friends just as much as he cared about his own, which in other words meant obsessively.  
  
Enjolras sighed as he rubbed at his tired eyes. “I suppose every week day. My classes are early, and I generally spend the afternoons immersing myself in various reform works. At night I attend to homework or I join up with all of you.”  
  
Joly didn’t look satisfied with his abridged answer.  
  
Combeferre jumped back into the conversation. “Don’t worry Joly, he takes the weekends a bit slower.”  
  
Courfeyrac began singing Hakuna Matata purposely off-tune in an effort to distract everyone’s attention back to the movie, even though they hadn’t even reached that scene, which made Jehan pause from his typing to chuckle. Bossuet quietly took Joly’s hand, hoping he might be able to calm down his boyfriend. He knew Joly found it difficult to escape from his irrational fears, and even Joly knew he was sometimes acting ridiculous, but he had struggled with his intrusive worries since childhood. Bossuet and Musichetta were the only two people who knew the reason why, and not because Joly distrusted the other friends in the group, but because it was painful for him to recall, and harder still to speak of.  
  
Joly’s mother had been an eccentric when it came to health, and she worried excessively over young Joly. If the boy came home from school with a runny nose, she was frantic and immediately sent him to bed with a wet cloth across his forehead. Unfortunately, Joly inherited his mother’s intense health phobias and even some of her bizarre superstitions, such as taking his pulse during stormy weather (as he had done several times that day).  
  
But there was something else, much worse, about his mother that he certainly did not inherit. His mother fell critically ill when Joly was still only a child, and she was determined not to believe a word from any doctor of the modern “technology infested” hospitals. She was a devout follower of that odd belief that modern medicine is an evil and ought not to be trusted. She was a sort of ancient soul when it came to many things in life, she preferred the classics to modern literature, and she always preferred Mozart and Rossini over the pop and rock music of the day. But it was her preference for antiquated medicinal practice that killed her. She absolutely refused to be taken to the hospital in her final days, and young Joly himself acted as nurse as she lay there dying. His father was there as much as possible, but he was too grief stricken to stay in the room beside her. Joly knew his father had never forgiven her for refusing help, but he tried his best not to show it in front of his son. The only times his mother was referred to in their conversations now was through the line, “if only you were older then son.”  
  
The boy, who now sat beside Bossuet on Courfeyrac’s floor, had grown into a hypochondriac, both from the years he lived with his mother worrying over him and also from feeling the weight of her illness all the years of his life. His goal was to become a medical doctor, and prove in part that he was doing the good that could have saved his mother’s life. And although his chosen occupational route made him feel a sense of sentimental as well as civic pride, the classes had only transformed him into an even more neurotic student. He was convinced with every lecture that he was coming down with whatever illness they had been discussing in class that day, so that by the end of the week it wasn’t uncommon for him to be certain he must have five different sudden diseases. It would have made Bossuet laugh if he wasn’t so supportive and sympathetic towards his boyfriend. Musichetta, whom both Joly and Bossuet shared, did laugh. She was never blatantly rude to him, but if she had plans with the two out and about in the city, she never allowed Joly to stay in bed with his worries. Musichetta would simply take his temperature, shove the completely healthy number in his face, and give him a sweet kiss on the mouth to cheer him up.  
  
But for all of the woes and worries that plagued Joly’s mind each day, he still appeared as one of the most cheerful in their group of friends. Not that Courfeyrac would allow any of his friends to be despondent anyhow (although sometimes Grantaire’s pessimism could be worse than despondency).  
  
As the film rolled on amidst Courfeyrac’s impressive ability to quote nearly every line, so too did the winter storm clouds looming ominously over all of Paris. The rain was beating harder against the window panes in the kitchen now as water droplets evolved into ice, and not long after the freezing rain began falling heavily, the power went out of the flat to everyone’s sudden surprise.  
  
“Damn it! And we were so close to meeting Timon and Pumbaa! Why did the power have to go out at the stampede scene? How depressing is that,” Courfeyrac said, as he walked carefully towards the wall length kitchen window, trying not to step on anyone in the dark. He fumbled around until he found the curtains, and when he swung them back, flickers of lightning flashed across the walls of the flat.  
  
“It’s getting worse out there,” said Combeferre as he too stood and stepped cautiously in the dark to stand by the window. “It rained all day and now it’s going to storm all night.” Outside he could make out through the patchwork of raindrops sticking to the glass a single slow car braving the road, its lights shining a dim orange through the relentless downpour. Across the way towards the mirroring Parisian buildings he could see the dark silhouettes of the slanted Mansard roofs. It was clear enough that the whole block was out of power, and he could just barely detect a few yellow orbs from flashlights bouncing from behind some of the distant windows.  
  
Grantaire took out his cigarette lighter from where he still sat on the couch. Its tiny flicker of light did little to illuminate the room, but it was enough for him to see that on the other side of the couch Enjolras had officially dozed off to sleep. Grantaire couldn’t avert his eyes from him as the little amount of fire in his hand cast a glorious shadow upon the sleeping man, who now appeared to have a golden glow all around him, making his blond curls take on an almost diaphanous gleam. He appeared to be radiating sunlight there in that darkened room, much like the moon and stars behind the storm clouds above the city. Grantaire couldn’t help but think of the paintings by Rembrandt hanging in the Louvre. Only Enjolras’s face was worth more than the entire Rembrandt collection, or so Grantaire thought. He had never considered the people in those paintings to be exceptionally beautiful, but he could relate to the shadows consuming them, and he recognized the lighting. He could see both so clearly now in the masterpiece he wished to paint right then and there, just two feet away and softly breathing.  
  
Jehan turned his attention towards the lighter and saw clearly what Grantaire was observing so quietly. “How is Enjolras managing to sleep with the raucous tempest out there?” Jehan said almost inaudibly, as though he were afraid his soft spoken voice would awaken him rather than the storm outside. Grantaire turned to face Jehan with a silent shrug, awestruck by the sleeping angel in the eye of the storm.  
  
“Seriously, this storm that doomed our movie is probably awaking the bones beneath the city.” Added Courfeyrac in a dramatic haunting tone from across the room. No one saw the look of fright on Marius’s face, or the way his puppy-dog eyes darted to the window with every flicker of wintry lightning. Imagining the slow dripping of freezing water into the stone maze of catacombs beneath the city didn’t make poor Marius feel any better at ease. He had always despised storms for some reason, and the idea of the dead laughing at ice only made his pulse quicken there in the dark of the room.  
  
“Well,” Jehan said as the shadows continued to envelope the room, “it appears we will be out of power for quite some time. I just checked the weather on Courf’s phone. This storm doesn’t show any chances of clearing any time soon.”  
  
“How late’s the time?” asked Combeferre, evidently worried about his journey home. He and Enjolras both had early classes to wake up for.  
  
“It’s already after eleven.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“Hey, look on the bright side,” Courfeyrac began, an air of excitement in his voice. “You can all crash here and we can tell grisly, spooky tales in the dark.”  
  
“I don’t know Courf,” replied Grantaire in the driest voice possible, “if I had known we would be telling spooky stories about dancing skeletons and magical mummies, I would have brought with me my sippy cup of Kool-Aid instead of this bottle of brandy.”  
  
“Don’t be so boring, it’ll be fun. How often do we all get to sit around together in the middle of a winter storm in a power outage at night? This is what people are supposed to do!”  
  
“Courf’s right of course, you can see how much fun Enjolras is having,” said Bossuet with a wide grin on his face, still sitting on the carpet not far from where Enjolras was fast asleep on the couch. Everyone laughed, including Grantaire, whose attention was once again centered on the oblivious man beside him.  
  
“I’ve got a sort of eerie story,” began Joly, with his hand raised in the air. “Bossuet used to have a goldfish, and one day we came into our flat and the fish was completely gone. We still to this day have no idea what happened to it.”  
  
“Yeah, that was bizarre,” Bossuet said shaking his head. “It just vanished one day. The flat never stank afterwards or anything.”  
  
Everyone fell silent. Finally Courfeyrac spoke up, “okay… well that was weird.”  
  
Combeferre was the next to speak, still standing by the window. “This isn’t a frightening story or anything, but since Enjolras is asleep I can finally say it.”  
  
Grantaire perked his head up, giving Combeferre his full attention. The room fell silent waiting for more. It wasn’t every day that they learned much about the man as a person. They knew everything about his causes, Enjolras never shut up about them, but they knew very little about their friend’s actual upbringing. Its not that he was hiding anything, or that he was deeply private, he just didn’t bother to ever talk about those things. Out of all the amis, Combeferre without a doubt knew the most about him. Combeferre now had a certain glint in his eyes. He looked as though he’d wanted to tell this particular story for years.  
  
“Well, back when Enj and I were growing up down in the Midi-Pyrénées, there was this girl in our class. We were only seven or eight, but I still remember it so clearly. This girl, I think her name was Lise or Laina or Lucie or something, anyway she had an obvious crush on Enjolras. One day when we were at recess and Enj and I were discussing some silly children’s book we were both really into, this girl came over and she started telling Enj in her broken, nervous speech that she liked his blond curly hair. Enj just stared at her completely without feeling; it was obvious he was annoyed that she had interrupted our conversation to say something stupid like that. Really the poor girl was only trying to be nice, but then all of a sudden she leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Enjolras stood up furiously, and knocked her to the ground. He said “if you ever do that again you’ll go home with a bruise.” So of course this poor girl runs to our teacher sobbing, and Enj was put in detention for a week. That girl probably still hates him to this day.”  
  
Everyone had a good laugh at that. It wasn’t difficult to imagine a young Enjolras destroying the heart of a little girl. Grantaire turned and looked at the peacefully sleeping man, trying to imagine what he must have been like as a child. It was almost impossible to believe Enjolras had ever truly been a child. There was no hint of playfulness in his personality, no immaturity, no humor. Even when he slept he appeared to be deep in thought. He supposed that Enjolras must have been one of those rare children who preferred doing homework rather than going to zoos and movies. But then again, Combeferre had without a doubt been much the same way. Grantaire had always assumed since meeting the two for the first time that Enjolras and Combeferre had had no other friends growing up. It wasn’t until the two moved to Paris for their university studies that they met and bonded with the other amis. In fact, the only three of the friends who actually grew up in and around Paris were Grantaire, Feuilly, and Eponine. And Feuilly only grew up in Paris because that was where his unknown parents had brought him to be dropped off in an orphanage as baby. Eponine had lived in the outskirts of Paris with what Grantaire could only picture from her vivid descriptions as the absolute worst family in all of France to be raised in. Grantaire himself grew up within the city limits of Paris with his mother and sister, his father had fled from them before Grantaire could remember. And that was that. It hardly bothered him though, like it would have most people. He never knew his father, and he never wanted to. There was no point in looking for a father who had willingly abandoned him and his family. His mother and older sister had been good enough for him. His mother was certainly supportive of Grantaire’s artistic pursuits. But the cost of living in Paris eventually drove her out of the city. She had relocated to a small town in the middle of the country, and it had been over a year since Grantaire had seen her or his sister. But he was making a life for himself in the city, and he knew they wouldn’t approve of his drinking habits, or his shabby flat. He sent friendly emails every now and then to let them know he was doing alright, mostly at Jehan’s rather forceful requests.  
  
“You must have a lot of stories like that about Enjolras and you growing up,” said Jehan, who was always fascinated by each of his friend’s intricate lives. “I’ve never gotten the chance to ask this, but this seems as perfect a time as ever. Combeferre, you would know better than any of us, has Enjolras ever had a significant other? Even once? I think it’s fair to say we’ve all wondered.”  
  
If it weren’t for the cold, heavy rain still pounding against the huge window in the kitchen, it would have been quiet enough in that moment to hear the ticking of Marius’s watch. All eyes were turned to Combeferre. Everyone had wondered, but no one had ever dared to ask. Now Jehan had. Grantaire felt himself stop breathing for a moment as they waited for Combeferre to speak again.  
  
Combeferre sighed, silently praying that anything he said wouldn’t backfire on him from Enjolras. He glanced over to where his best friend was hunched over on the couch, with a side of his face resting against the arm rest. He lowered his voice this time to speak. “No, never once. Enjolras and I have kept up a deeply personal friendship all our lives, and in and amongst all of our conversations, he’s never once talked about feelings, not for men or women. I don’t know if he’s just kept that part of his life completely private, or if he’s just simply never considered it. But, he’s talked to me about everything else, so I think it’s safe to say that he’s never been with anyone.”  
  
Grantaire could practically feel his heart relaxing back into his chest. There were a thousand questions he was burning to ask, but his mouth had gone dry. His bottle had gone dry as well, and for once he was glad there wasn’t a single drop left to drink. Tonight he had things to think about, soberly, and they were good things. Grantaire didn’t have access to Enjolras’s heart, he knew that, but he was content knowing that no one else on the planet did either.  
  
“What about his family? I’ve never once heard him mention his parents. I don’t even know if he has siblings.” It had been Marius who spoke up this time to everyone’s surprise. Marius hadn’t said a word for hours it seemed.  
  
“He’s an only child,” Combeferre continued, “and both of his parents still live in the south. They bought a chateau from the 1600s the year before Enj and I left for Paris, if that gives you any indication of their ridiculous wealth. His father owns a very successful winery down there.”  
  
“Hold up, his parents just decided to buy a chateau one day?” Courfeyrac’s tone was skeptical, but he couldn’t hide his fascination.  
  
“I know it sounds completely preposterous, but that’s the truth. His parents are filthy rich. Enjolras felt sick living at the chateau. He was raised in a nice house, but the chateau was just too much for him. It was too pompous, too obnoxiously grand. There’s a reason he is the way he is, about his causes I mean. He grew up living the life that most people can only dream about. The older he got, the more he grew to hate that pampered, simple existence. He began reading the news at a young age, and it affected him tremendously. He didn’t want to grow up to be some rich kid with no merit of his own. Enjolras would rather be dirt poor and valuable, rather than rich and worthless. His parents were supportive of his decisions, even though they must have seen how troublesome he could be. They still send him money without him asking. I often felt they gave in too much to him actually. He’s got a horrible side that was never disciplined. But like all of his ideas, they respected his desire to study in Paris. Although I think they thought that he wanted to come here only to study. His parents don’t know about the social work he’s doing on the side. But we all know his real purpose in the city.”  
  
When Combeferre finished speaking, everyone fell into a quiet contemplation, pondering over all of the sudden information about their friend. It was strange how little they knew about him.  
  
“I have to admit,” began Courfeyrac in an uncommonly serious and quiet voice, “I sometimes feel honored when he actually hangs out with us. And I don’t mean us discussing reform work, or designing pamphlets, but when he just sits with us and watches movies or comes with us to listen to Jehan read poetry at Corinth’s open mic night. Or when he goes to the shows that Feuilly designs costumes for. It’s good to see him act human sometimes.”  
  
“He came to a medical presentation I was giving at a student seminar once. I saw him in the second row. He was even taking notes during my speech over epidemiology,” said Joly. “I suppose I never told him, but it really meant a lot that he came.”  
  
Bossuet jammed a fist lightly against his boyfriend’s ribs. “I was sitting next to him you know.” Joly grinned back and leaned in for a kiss.  
  
Grantaire turned resentfully away from the sleeping man so close beside him. “He’s never showed up at any of the art shows I was featured in. Never once. All of you came to all six of them, but never once did he come with you. He knew when they were, I told him every time.”  
  
An awkward silence fell over the dark room. Ice was still crashing against the windows, and the temperature inside the flat had grown colder as the night went on. The power had been out for what seemed like ages now, and their eyesight had gotten used to the dark, so much that they could see one another clearly. Grantaire noticed that no one was looking him in the eye. It made him feel deeply uneasy, and he wished in that moment that his bottle wasn’t empty.  
  
It was Jehan who finally broke the horrible silence, his soothing voice like a calm wave throughout the room. “Grantaire, do you want to talk about it? We would be happy to listen to you.”  
  
Grantaire shifted restlessly where he sat. It was already humiliating enough to have to think about it. He gave an unconvincing laugh and waved his hand as though to act as if it didn’t really matter. “Nah, no point in me melting down into some Aristotelian catharsis for all to see. Of course it bothers me, but it’s nothing new. I think it’s obvious he loathes me.” He could feel his cheeks burning up as his blood rushed through his veins like a poison. “I just…sometimes I…never mind. It’s not worth saying.”  
  
“Grantaire, you can say it. What were you going to say?” Jehan couldn’t have had a more sympathetic expression on his face if he had tried. It made Grantaire feel sick knowing himself to be the center of a pity party.  
  
“No really, I’ll just start babbling like an idiot.” Grantaire knew exactly what he was about to say next. He also knew that if he said it, no one in that room would ever forget it. Sometimes I wish he could see the look on my face when he’s facing the other way. Then he would know precisely what I believe in.  
  
“Well,” said Joly in an abrupt spirited voice, hoping to succeed in changing the exceptionally awkward atmosphere in the room. “Bossuet and I were on the phone earlier this evening with Musichetta-”  
  
“We know,” said Courfeyrac, interrupting him with more than a hint of jest in his voice, “you guys were gone for over an hour. Something big must have happened.”  
  
“Well, yes, actually. There’s two rather exciting bits of news! Bossuet is leaving for a two week cruise in the Mediterranean next week! His family and extended family are joining up for a reunion, and they chose two weeks in Greece, Turkey, and Croatia for their setting!”  
  
Combeferre was genuinely delighted to hear it. “That will be a wonderful trip! You’ll love it. I was there with my parents several years ago. The history is phenomenal down there.”  
  
“What’s the second piece of news?” Courfeyrac asked impatiently from where he sat perched on the windowsill in the kitchen, tracing the patterns of frigid droplets with his fingers.  
  
“Well,” Bossuet began, much more excited this time. “Musichetta has agreed to move in with Joly and I. It took a little convincing, but now she’s ecstatic about it. By the time I get back she’ll be settled in at our place!”  
  
“That’s great news, congratulations!” said Marius, who again surprised everyone by merely speaking.  
  
“Good for you,” said Combeferre, who was now sitting atop the kitchen counter since all the available seats were still taken, save for the little bit of space between Enjolras and Grantaire. “It sounds like you guys have really gotten everything all figured out. I’m glad to hear it.”  
  
“I would offer you two some congratulatory brandy, but alas I drank it all,” piped in Grantaire, who had made quite the effort to distract himself away from the soft breathing coming from the handsome man curled up next to him. Grantaire was now feeling immensely thankful for the power outage. The proximity between him and Enjolras was making his head spin, and had there been light in the room it would have been obvious how often every minute he glanced over to the side. Having everyone else in the room kept him at least a little distracted, enough so that he could force himself to appear calm. He was trying to forget the pain of the previous conversation, and the mere appearance of Apollo was all it took to blind him from any negative thoughts. A part of him despised how quickly he could rebound from insult, but another part of him was thankful, for how could he bear to not look at the man? No matter how consistently wounded he was by Enjolras, he could never avoid him. It was harder staying away than it was getting too close.  
  
The sound of a phone buzzing somewhere in the flat startled everyone suddenly. After some searching, the phone was finally identified as belonging to Combeferre. “Its Eponine,” he said, reading the text. He found himself unable to restrain the small grin that lit up his face as he read it.  
  
“What’s she up to? Is she building an arc to come and greet us?” asked Courfeyrac, obviously teasing Combeferre who was reading the text over again. Everyone knew Combeferre had grown to be overly fond of the street-wise girl, even though he was always so quiet around her. He was well aware that Grantaire and Courfeyrac made for more entertaining company, but she always texted Combeferre first before anyone, even before Marius, and that was enough to keep him satisfied.  
  
“She’s just bored and alone, and wondering if our power is out too. Apparently Montparnasse ditched her after her night class. It’s a shame I didn’t know earlier, she could have joined up with us.”  
  
“Why does she insist on being with that asshole? He’s consistently horrible to her. He’s consistently horrible in general,” said Bossuet, who had since his first meeting with Montparnasse despised the guy and his dark skinny jeans, jet black hair, and band t-shirts. It had been a snowy day in January when they had first met two years before, and Montparnasse had made an extended effort to mock him when he accidentally slipped and fell on the ice. Bossuet had nearly broken his nose, and Montparnasse couldn’t stop laughing and teasing him about it for weeks.  
  
Combeferre didn’t bother to answer. He certainly couldn’t speak for Eponine or her relationship preferences. Of course it frustrated him that they were together, but he couldn’t just approach her and say “by the way your boyfriend is not worth a pile of shit. You’d really best discard him.” He couldn’t say it. Even if that was how he felt, which it was (it was how they all felt), Eponine was the sort of girl you just didn’t give advice to. He just hoped that eventually she’d see reason, and then finally be rid of the demonic man once and for all. He hoped when that day came that she would run to him, but that didn’t seem likely either. Combeferre had a despairing feeling that he had been friend zoned. It was Marius she would run to when that day came, not him. Marius, who although kind and softhearted, was just as clueless as he was bilingual.  
  
Combeferre tried not to let it bother him when Eponine would get up in the middle of one of their conversations to greet Marius when he arrived places. It pained him, but he knew better than to let it get to him. He thought to himself in those moments, if she wants Marius, then I ought not to interfere. I’d rather she was with Marius than Montparnasse. No matter the conditions, Combeferre would always accept her around. He wanted her around. Their group of friends was always missing something when she wasn’t there.  
  
Combeferre fell quiet the longer he texted Eponine back and forth. Marius had evidently fallen asleep at some point, for all of a sudden they could hear the light snoring coming from a corner of the room, mixed with the thrumming of the rain. Courfeyrac laughed as he stepped past Marius back into the living room. “I suppose I’d better find some blankets and pillows before we all give ourselves stiff necks.” He turned around a corner and vanished into a short, dark hallway.

  


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Another two hours passed by, and soon enough only Jehan and Courfeyrac were still awake in the apartment. Joly and Bossuet were sharing a large blanket on the floor near the TV, and Combeferre, with his phone still in hand, was up against a stretch of wall a few feet away from where Marius was asleep sitting upright at what appeared to be a rather painful angle. Grantaire was still beside Enjolras, who not once had been awakened by the sounds of his friends’ voices earlier in the night. Courfeyrac had given Grantaire both a pillow and blanket, but Grantaire had instead gently placed the pillow beneath Enjolras’s head. Enjolras didn’t wake as Grantaire slid the pillow beneath the mess of blond curls, but the sudden movement did manage to stir him in his sleep, and Grantaire couldn’t help but softly grin as Enjolras’s hands adjusted the pillow mechanically as he subconsciously tried to make himself more comfortable. Grantaire then took the wine red blanket that Courfeyrac had tossed to him and proceeded to wrap it around Enjolras, adjusting it so that the edge of the blanket tucked lightly beneath his chin. Once his task was done, Grantaire maneuvered himself back to his side of the couch, thoroughly satisfied by his deed. As the others drifted off to sleep one by one to the sounds of the winter storm outside, Grantaire stayed up a while longer, taking notice of the rise and fall of Enjolras’s chest in his peripheral vision. It was sometime after two when he finally drifted off to sleep as well, with nothing but the old sweater he’d been wearing all day for a blanket, and the back cushion of the couch as a pillow.  
  
Once Jehan and Courfeyrac realized that they were the only two left awake, they silently crept out of the living room and headed towards Courfeyrac’s room. When the door was shut behind them, Jehan stumbled towards the bed and seated himself on the end of it. Courfeyrac fumbled around in the dark until he found the light switch. He flicked it on and off only to find that the power was still out.  
  
“I would have thought it’d be back up by now,” he said before shrugging and following Jehan onto the foot of the bed.  
  
They were silent for a moment, both feeling awkward about sitting alone together on the bed. It was Courfeyrac who broke the silence. “Combeferre really filled in some gaps tonight about Enjolras. It’s strange isn’t it? How little we know about him. I wonder why he’s so private about, well, nearly everything that matters to most other people.”  
  
“It’s hard to say. He’s certainly unique. Did you see Grantaire wrap the blanket around him?”  
  
Courfeyrac smiled, revealing a perfect toothy grin. “I sure did. It’s actually painful how awkward those two are around each other.” He paused to contemplate an idea that had evidently just popped into his head. He laid back against the bed and laughed, “you should write a poem about them and recite it at Corinth’s next open mic night. It would have to be like one of those epic poems of the ancient world, the ones that go on and on forever and show no signs of anything getting resolved. It could even feature Apollo, Grantaire would like that.”  
  
Jehan laughed, “That’s a wicked idea.”  
  
“No! I think it would help them. Enjolras is beyond oblivious, and Grantaire is beyond obvious. They just need a little help getting there, that’s all.”  
  
“Getting there?” Jehan knew exactly what Courfeyrac was referring to, but he wanted to hear him say it.  
  
“I mean, they could use some help finally hooking up. Come on, everybody but those two know that it’s inevitable.”  
  
“I’ll think about it. But I don’t want to embarrass them. They would both be impossible to deal with if I did. The whole message would have to be subtle.”  
  
“You could take one of the old stories and modify it.”  
  
Jehan considered for a moment the many ancient stories he had read. All the heroes, the lovers, the tragedies, the comedies. Finally his face lit up with a selection.  
  
“Yes?” Courfeyrac eyed Jehan suspiciously; he could see the corners of the poet’s lips turn upward.  
  
“Orestes and Pylades.”

  


 

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There was a faint blue light streaming into the flat when Enjolras finally opened his eyes. The curtains were still opened on the wall length window in the kitchen, and there was now a light drizzle falling softly against the glass, unlike the downpour hours before. Outside he could hear the metallic humming of a Metro train zooming past a block away, it’s rapidly moving wheels screeching against the steel rails. The sky was still dark, but there was the unmistakable purple haze of morning lingering over the quiet city. Dawn was just beginning to arrive over Paris, and he could see that the clouds were rolling fast, as if they were hurrying to depart to make way for the majestic rays of sunlight that would envelope the air of yet another cold, windy day. There were a few orange lights flickering by from cars in the street below, and here and there a black umbrella could be seen bobbing along down on the pavement. The Seine was hidden from view by several blocks of white old buildings and slanted roofs, and in the distance he could just make out the top of the Panthéon across the river, its dome still illuminated for night. Suddenly a traffic light switched from red to green on the corner of the street below, and he watched as two women braved the ice for a chilly morning jog. Paris was waking up, and it was a sight he would never get used to. It filled Enjolras with a sort of passion that dawn alone could instill. It was quiet. It was calm. And it was glorious.  
  
Inside the flat he could make out the various shapes of his friends, all fast asleep around the room, huddled warm beneath thin blankets with the carpeting as a mattress. He alone was awake. He wasn’t sure when exactly he had drifted off. The last thing he remembered was Courfeyrac putting on The Lion King, and he supposed he had remained awake for a few beginning scenes before officially dozing off.  
  
In his peripheral vision he noticed someone else beside him curled up on the couch. He made to turn his head slightly to get a better view when he found that there was a red blanket wrapped around him, the edge of the soft fabric caressed against the side of his face. He was sure he had fallen asleep without it, as well as the pillow.  
  
When he again looked towards the sleeping person beside him, he found Grantaire with his head leaning to the side, resting against the top of the back cushion of the couch. His arms were wrapped around his waist as though to ward of the chill in the room.  
  
Enjolras leaned back against his pillow, his eyes sleepily resting on Grantaire. He had never actually looked at the artist before, not so close up. He could see clearly now the profile of his nose, and the way his dark curls shaded his forehead. He could see the stubble on his face, signifying he hadn’t shaved in about two days. He could see the thin line of his mouth, and a small splotch of blue paint near his ear. He wondered if Grantaire’s personality changed when he dreamed, or if he was always a drunken, rude, and cynical smartass. There were too many vexing aspects to him, too many shadows, too much pessimism. He was too contradictory, and loud. He was too wild.  
  
But not then. Not there on that couch. In sleep he could have been any young and handsome man in Paris. It made Enjolras frustrated to look at him. He was so capable of being something extraordinary. But Grantaire preferred wasting his intelligence on alcohol and paint.  
  
He turned his eyes away from Grantaire. He didn’t know how long he had been watching the artist sleep, lost in bizarre daydreams, but suddenly he realized that the light of dawn had steadily illuminated the room. He sat up slowly, as not to wake the man beside him, and he winced as he felt the pain in his neck for sleeping half the night hunched over to one side. He stood, picking up the blanket and pillow that had been at some point given to him. He cautiously walked over closer to Grantaire and slipped the pillow behind his head. Grantaire was leaning forward in a most uncomfortable looking way, but Enjolras was afraid to touch him for fear of startling him. He then took the blanket and stretched it out wide before placing it softly across Grantaire’s body. Grantaire didn’t stir at all, but Enjolras felt better knowing that he wasn’t still shivering in the cold room.  
  
Enjolras slowly turned his attention back to the wall length window in the kitchen, walking away from the living room and his scattered friends. The morning light had turned the rain clouds from a dark hazy blue to a bleak gray. The electricity had been restored at some point in the early morning hours, and there were golden lights emanating from the little windows of buildings all over Paris now as people began preparing themselves for the new day. At the end of the street a boulangerie turned its lights on; the long, fresh baguettes of the bakery dimly visible from where Enjolras stood twelve floors up. He crossed his hands behind his back and sighed as he looked out. The city was awake.

**Author's Note:**

> And there's chapter one! I hope it doesn't disappoint! First chapters are always the hardest in my opinion. There's so much needing to be set up, and 13 main characters requires A LOT of setting up :P
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> Let me know what you guys think of the story! Feedback is much appreciated, especially considering this is my first work for Les Mis :)


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